


so we keep waiting (as restless as an avalanche)

by rizcriz



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, post 4x09, someone actually talks to quentin about his fucking feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-21
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-11-27 05:16:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18190244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rizcriz/pseuds/rizcriz
Summary: “Uh, hey.”Quentin looks up from the book, blinking away the sleep dark that threatens at the edges of his vision, and narrows his eyes up at Penny standing in the doorway. He’s got his arms crossed like he’s uncomfortable. Which means Quentin’s about to be uncomfortable. Well. More uncomfortable. He hasn’t not felt uncomfortable in weeks. Months. Years, even.The one time he can think back on being comfortable is on the worlds most uncomfortable couch, filled to the brim with easing spells, straw sticking out the sides, while he lay across it horizontally with his legs dipping over the side, and his head in Eliot’s lap. Eliot’s fingers scratching mindless patterns in Quentin’s scalp, getting tangled in the unkempt mess. All while their son laughs in the other room, a giddy little manic joy that only a child can possess. The comfort, then, had been easy and real. Especially when he opened his eyes and found Eliot watching him with a soft smile that he’d reserved solely for moments like these.—Or, Penny23 and Quentin have a chat.





	so we keep waiting (as restless as an avalanche)

“Uh, hey.” 

Quentin looks up from the book, blinking away the sleep dark that threatens at the edges of his vision, and narrows his eyes up at Penny standing in the doorway. He’s got his arms crossed like he’s uncomfortable. Which means  _ Quentin’s _ about to be uncomfortable. Well.  _ More _ uncomfortable. He hasn’t not felt uncomfortable in weeks. Months. Years, even. 

The one time he can think back on being comfortable is on the worlds most uncomfortable couch, filled to the brim with easing spells, straw sticking out the sides, while he lay across it horizontally with his legs dipping over the side, and his head in Eliot’s lap. Eliot’s fingers scratching mindless patterns in Quentin’s scalp, getting tangled in the unkempt mess. All while their son laughs in the other room, a giddy little manic joy that only a child can possess. The comfort, then, had been easy and _ real. _ Especially when he opened his eyes and found Eliot watching him with a soft smile that he’d reserved solely for moments like these. 

He slides his gaze back down to the book and forces down the lump in his throat that forms at the thought of Eliot.

Not now.  _ Not now. _ Not  _ ever, _ hopefully. 

Can’t mourn if he’s not dead.

And he’s  _ not _ dead, damn it.

“What do you want?” He asks, soft, as he looks down, unseeing, at the book. He’s already read through it three times; there hadn’t been any answers. There still aren’t any. But if the monster appears and see’s Quentin not working for an answer, he’ll do something awful. To Eliot. 

He hears the shuffle of Penny’s shoes against the floor as he makes his way into the room. “Listen,” He says, voice rough; the disgruntled ‘i-don’t-want-to-do-this’ tone strong. “I know we’re not friends.” 

Quentin can practically feel the ‘but’ coming. “No, we are not,” He mutters, flipping the page a little more violently than he intends to. 

Penny stops. “Okay,” He says, the word trailing off, a slight tinge of annoyance following after it. “Look. I get you don’t want to talk to Julia or anyone else about what’s going on with you. But—“ Quentin hears the shuffling of fabric, and guesses Penny’s shrugging. “I kinda get what you’re going through. And, I just. Thought you should know, that I’m here for you, man.” 

Quentin scoffs without really meaning to, and turns to look at him. His elbow slides along the edges of the table, the sound of paper crinkling in its wake as it crunches the pages of the book beneath it. His other elbow rests on the edge of the chair, as he blinks, owlishly, up at Penny. “You get what I’m going through?” He asks, voice soft. Low.  _ Dangerous. _ “How exactly—“ 

“Person I was in love with was killed by a monster that seemed unbeatable?” Penny raises his eyebrows, almost like a challenge. “And don’t try saying you’re not in love with him. You may not be willing to admit it, but we’re not fucking blind, man.” 

Quentin blinks.

Not willing to admit it? 

“What  _ exactly _ am I not willing to admit?” 

Maybe it’s a trap. 

“That I love Eliot? Or that he’s dead?” Slowly, uneasily, he pushes himself up from the chair, swallowing thickly. “Because I’m not afraid to admit that I’m in—that I feel the way I do.” He can’t say it. Not those words, in that order. Can’t say it. Eliot needs to be the first one to hear it. If he says it to someone else, it won’t matter. It’ll be empty. Eliot won’t believe him, and he’ll just keep thinking that everything Quentin does is because he doesn’t have a choice. 

But he does. Have a choice.

_ Eliot’s _ his choice. 

Fuck the rest of the world, and the monster, and Penny, and whoever else. 

_ Eliot.  _

“And he’s not.” He swallows. “Dead.” 

Penny raises his hands up, as if in surrender. “I didn’t say he was. I’m just saying. I’m willing to listen. With what you’re feeling. You’re not in a good place, man.” 

How could he be? Does anyone actually  _ expect _ him to be in a good place? The only person who knows every part of Quentin, who understands him in a way that still isn’t even  _ feasibly comprehensible, _ is trapped inside his own mind while a vengeful god wears his body and murders innocent people. 

“Am I  _ supposed _ to be okay?” 

Penny frowns. “What?” 

“Am I supposed to be okay?” Quentin repeats, taking a rocky step towards him, one hand moving to rest on the edge of the table. “Were  _ you _ okay when your Julia died?” He tilts his head. Knows this is unnecessarily cruel. Can understand that Penny’s just trying to help. But he  _ can’t  _ help. He can’t do anything but get in the fucking way. Quentin just needs to focus, and he can’t  _ do _ that if people keep trying to get him to talk. Right now his feelings are of the lowest priority. It’s Eliot’s feelings that matter.

Eliot who’s trapped.

“Look, man—“

“Tell me. Did—did you find out right away? Or did you have to watch a shell of her walk around for months while she slowly wilted away beneath it?” He takes a step closer, lets his fingers draw forward, slide along the edge of the table until they slip off the edge, and his hand falls to his side. “Did you find her body? Or, is that still something you wonder—how she looked in her—her final moments?”

Penny clenches his jaw, but makes no move to reply or leave. 

Something in Quentin snaps. 

“I have watched as this— _ thing. _ Destroys Eliot’s body in every fun and—and  _ exciting,”  _ He spits the word out like it’s poison, “way it can fucking  _ think _ to.” He takes the last two steps to clear the distance between them, until there’s barely even a foot separating them, and glares up at Penny. He’s sure it holds none of the heat he’d like it to. He’s too tired, too—too. Too far gone. To be angry anymore. “How the fuck is—how can anyone—how am I supposed to be  _ okay? _ ” He raises his eyebrows, tilting his head and throws his hands out at his side. “Come on, Mr. Been Through This.  _ Tell me how I’m supposed to be okay!” _

Penny just.  _ Watches _ him.

Snarling, Quentin closes the foot between them, and reaches up, shoving at him with all the strength and pain and unwanted mourning he’s got bottled up in him. Penny doesn’t even looks surprised, even when he stumbles back a couple steps. His arms don’t come up to steady himself, his careful look doesn’t waver. He just watches Quentin. All quiet and knowing.

And Quentin. Quentin fucking  _ hates _ it. He hates him. 

“Tell me!” He moves in and shoves Penny again, with all the force he has in him. Can’t help but notice how Penny barely moves this time. “Come  _ on!” _ He shoves him again; Penny barely stumbles back a step. Something angry and violent unfurls out of Quentin’s chest as he moves in and shoves him again. “How am I supposed to be  _ okay? _ ” The desperation he’d been, well, desperate, to keep at bay comes welling up in the words—seeping them in his grief.

Penny doesn’t move. He just. Stares down at Quentin with this  _ look _ in his eyes—that if it were anyone other than Penny, Quentin’d assume it’s sympathy.

But it’s  _ Penny.  _

Even a Penny from another timeline  _ can’t _ feel sympathy for  _ Quentin. _ Especially not  _ twenty three. _

Quentin killed Julia in twenty three. 

Might get her killed in forty to save Eliot, even. He loves her, doesn’t want her dead.

But he’ll do anything to get Eliot back. And he doesn’t know how far that extends, anymore. 

Penny  _ can’t _ have sympathy for him. 

Quentin glares, a frustrated and confused scream fills the room, and he reaches up to shove Penny again; instead his hands make fists, and he feels himself punch at the walls of Penny’s chest. He freezes; expects Penny to react. To fight back. Waits for stinging, burning, aching—but nothing comes. Penny just stares at him, resolute and still. And fucking  _ passive.  _

“Fucking hit me  _ back!” _  He cries, punching Penny in the chest again, right below his pecs. Forceful and violent. His arms ache with the ferocity of it, the impact vibrating down the length of his veins. He shoves forward, punching at him again.

And again.

And  _ again. _

And—

Penny shakes his head, doesn’t even move to get out of the way of Quentin’s fists. “Nah, man,” He says, the words only just this side of shaking every time Quentin’s fists collide with his chest. “I had this, too. When I found out.” He nods down at Quentin’s arms, which are getting tired, too tired. Like every other part of Quentin. “I broke everything I could find. Trashed the cottage. My fists—fuck, I couldn’t hold shit for weeks, they were so bruised and battered.” 

Quentin’s hands drop to his side; stinging, aching. But it’s tangible. Not this burning pain in his chest and head that refuses to fade. That can’t be explained or presented. 

“Point is—it’s good. Get angry. I’d rather you hit me than someone else.” He shrugs; he doesn’t need to specify who else. “It’s not like it hurts or anything.” 

Quentin scoffs. “All it  _ does _ is hurt.”

Penny’s quiet for a long moment, before, “That’s not what I meant. But—yeah.” He takes a deep breath, steps back. “Look. The thing you gotta remember is Eliot’s not dead.” 

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.” 

Quentin looks up at him. “Everything I do is ensuring that fucking—the monster doesn’t. Change that. And—you guys keep coming up with—“

He stops. He’s just. So  _ tired _ of talking about it. Of fighting their every dumb plan. 

“We’re not going to get Eliot killed.” 

“Could have fooled me.” 

Penny scoffs. “Yeah, okay. We, the people who know what you’re feeling best—“

“ _ You _ don’t know anything!“

“I don’t?” He takes a step in, gives him his bullshit ‘i know everything’ face that 40 had perfected. 23’s could use some work. It’s nowhere near as antagonizing. “Let me ask you a question. Answer honestly. I mean, I know the answer, so—have you even cried yet?” Quentin frowns; feels himself take a step back unintentionally. Penny nods. “Yeah, I didn’t think so.” 

Quentin shakes his head. He doesn’t need to cry. He just—needs to save Eliot. Crying is for when he gets him back or—

_ Or _ . 

“Have you even considered what happens if—“

“No.” He’s fast to interrupt, eyes jerking up to meet the false sympathy in Penny’s, insistent and loud. The word is firm—more certain than he’s been in months about anything. Because no. There is no or. There is no if. There’s only when—when he gets Eliot back. When they save him. No if’s. No or’s. No. 

No. 

Penny sighs, runs a hand over his face, and up through his hair. “Look, Coldwater, you have to at least acknowledge that you might have to say goodbye—“ 

“I’m not saying goodbye.”

Mostly because if Eliot dies so does Quentin.

That’s it. That’s how this ends if Eliot— _ if Eliot. _

Penny’s eyebrows furrow. “Why not?” Quentin just looks at him, lets his arms come up to wrap around himself; hopes his wards are still up. Protecting him from any psychic travelers tempted to take a peak inside. If the look on Penny’s face is anything to go by—that’s exactly what he’s thinking of doing. He takes a step closer, narrowing his eyes down at Quentin. “Your wards are looking good. What’s that about?” Its not even a serious question. He’s asking like he already  _ knows _ the answer.

Quentin shrugs; takes a step back. “Don’t want the monster knowing I hate him.” Tries not to acknowledge the actual tremble in his voice when he says it. 

“Liar.” Penny advances, moves in and bends down, just enough to get a real look at Quentin—so they’re eye level with each other. Quentin can feel the tell tale signs of someone poking at his wards. 

_ “Don’t.” _

“Nah, I think,” He pauses, twisting his neck and tilting his head, “I will . . .” He trails off; the pecking at his wards grows insistent, and Quentin closes his eyes, tries to keep the wards up through sheer force of will. But his wards have always been weak, and Penny just strolls through them like walking through the door on an average Tuesday afternoon. 

He feels it the moment he sees it. Everything precariously stacked at the corners of Quentin’s mind that he been carefully avoiding. Fillory, the rejection, their son,  _ burying Eliot— _ all the actual times he’s had to watch him die, because it feels like that’s all that happens. Quentin tries to save someone and ends up watching Eliot die. Even living a life together, full and beautiful and wonderful, he watched Eliot die. It’s all he does. And it’s all there, replaying through his mind as Penny walks through his thoughts and memories.

He can’t. Do it again. 

“Stop.” Penny doesn’t stop. “Please. I.” 

He finds it. Buried beneath all the loss; at the center of everything Quentin’s trying to keep bottled up, because if it gets out, he won’t be able to fight. Won’t be able to be strong for Eliot and deal with the monster and do what needs to be done. If it gets out, Quentin doubts he’ll even be able to get out of bed. Let alone--

_ “Jesus.” _

“Get out.”

Penny takes a step back, withdraws from Quentin’s head. “Look—man. I know. This is hard but—“

Quentin shakes his head, to stop Penny or to shake the truth away, he’s not sure. “Did you count?”

“What?”

“Did you count how many times I’ve watched him die?” Penny’s jaw goes slack, but he doesn’t reply. Quentin waits—and finally, there’s a minuscule little nod. “I can tell you. I’ve kept track.” 

“Quentin—“

“You. Call me by my name, now?” Quentin scoffs, turns around and moves to sit back down in the chair. “How many times did you watch Julia die?”

Penny’s silent for a long moment. “I didn’t.” 

Quentin nods. He’d be lying if he said there isn’t a little sapling of envy prickling at the center of his gut.  “How would you have reacted if you’d seen her death? Just the once?” Penny licks his lips, looks away, and Quentin nods again. Because of course. “What about—if you. If you saw her die again. And again, and—what if she just kept. Dying. In front of you.” 

It’s not even a question, because yes. Yes, Quentin’s a coward and broken and afraid. But nobody—not even Penny—should have to watch the person they love die. Over and over and over again. Even if they do come back, it never lasts. They just. Eliot just—keeps dying. 

And Quentin can’t keep burying him. 

“Right,” he says after a moment. “So fucking forgive me. If I don’t want to watch it, or let it happen again.” 

He expects the conversation to be done, turns to look back at the book and reread what he’s already read a dozen times. Thinks Penny’s done being a good guy for the day—good deed to impress Julia complete. But, Penny moves further into the room, walks up to him until he’s standing by the side of the desk. When Quentin doesn’t turn to look up at him, he kneels, crouching to the side of him, his hand coming up to clutch the edge of the desk.

“Look, man,” he says, softer than Penny has any right to be, given that he’s Penny. “I’m not gonna lie and say this shit isn’t a nightmare scenario. But what I saw in there—“ he gestures to Quentin’s head, “What you’re planning to do if we fail. That’ll kill Julia.”

“She’s immortal.” 

He sees Penny nod from the corner of his eye. “You know what I mean.” He reaches up, grabs Quentin by the shoulder. “I’ve seen what happens to Julia when you die. I’m not gonna watch that again. So—just know that.” 

Quentin looks at him, frowns. “You—“

“Like you said,” Penny interrupts, moving to stand at his full height, looming over Quentin. “We’re not friends. So if it comes down to it, and Eliot dies. You just. Need to know that you’re not following him.” 

Quentin’s eyes sting and he turns away, shaking his head. “You really think—“

Penny leans down, his hand coming to settle on the table again, palm down flat. “It doesn’t matter what I think, Coldwater,” He says, “Because whatever you’re thinking? From here on out?” He doesn’t finish the thought because it’s obvious. Quentin knows.

Penny will know his every thought. Wards be damned. 

“You’re an asshole.” 

Penny shrugs, pats Quentin on the shoulder and takes a step back. “Maybe.” He pauses, like he’s watching Quentin, “That doesn’t mean we’re not going to do everything we can to save him.” 

“Yeah.”

“I’m serious, man.” He swallows audibly, “You’re right. You’ve watched him die too many times. So, let’s. Make sure neither of us have to do something we don’t want to.”

The funny part of the statement is that Quentin’s scenario of something he doesn’t want to do?

He has to do either way.

“Okay?”

Quentin shrugs. “Sure, whatever.” 

Penny sighs.

He’s not sure what Penny expects. One conversation from a version of a person that hates him isn’t going to magically make this scenario any easier. And neither is knowing that whatever happens, there’s going to be someone in his head waiting for his next move. 

Quentin turns the page in the book. “Okay,” he repeats, a little more forcefully when Penny doesn’t leave. He looks at him, barely tilting his chin away from the book, to watch as Penny turns on his heel and walks out of the room without another word.

Quentin bites his lip and looks back down at the book.

His brow furrows when he finds that it’s damp, little droplets if water seeping through the page, and he reaches up, wipes at the space beneath his eyes.

They come back wet.

Oh.

He brings his other hand up and wipes his eyes with his palms, takes a deep breath, and then swipes away the tears on the page, smearing them across the page. The words on the page are still blurry, tears still brimming on his eyelashes. 

“Get it together, Coldwater,” he mutters to himself, shaking his head. “Eliot needs you.” 


End file.
